


the skater and the rich boy

by gothyringwald



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Hanging Out, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Pining, Skateboarding, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 13:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19063882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: It's the summer of 1977 and the drought in California is in full force. Lawns go unwatered and swimming pools sit forlorn and empty. Around Venice and Santa Monica, skaters take advantage of the empty pools, breaking into backyards to skate like no one has before.When Billy Hargrove—a skater who splits his time between his job at a surf shop and skating with his sister, Max—breaks into Steve Harrington's backyard, it might turn out to be the best thing he’s ever done.





	the skater and the rich boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LazyBaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/gifts).



> A little while back I watched the doco Dogtown and Z-Boys and was really surprised at how engaging I found it (to say I’m not a sports person would be an understatement). Anyway, I was like ‘oooh, what about 1970s skater!Billy AU’ and here we are!
> 
> This one’s for lazybaker aka granpappy-winchester for being very enthusiastic and supportive of the idea when we were chatting about it. Thank you! I hope you like what I ended up with <333
> 
> And thank you to socknonny for being awesome and beta-ing this for me :) any remaining mistakes, etc., are my own
> 
> Aaaaaaaand there’s a moodboard for the fic [over here on Tumblr](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/185325778490/the-skater-and-the-rich-boy-for) :)

—BAIL—

Summer, 1977

 

Wind rushes through Billy's hair and past his ears as his board flies along the concrete. He swivels his body, shifts his weight, curving the board's path. His hand skims the side of the empty pool, the same way it trails the surface of the water when he's out on the waves. Guiding him. Keeping him connected.

His mind goes blank as his body takes over, knowing exactly what to do next so that he goes up and over the light on the side of the pool, back down into the depths. Max cheers but Billy barely hears her. 

Surfing is a thrill but skating is so much better. It's calm seeping through his pores at the same time adrenaline spikes in his veins. There's nothing else like it.

But when Max calls out, 'They're home!', Billy's brain kicks back in. A different kind of thrill shoots through him, now, the thrill that comes with the possibility of getting caught. If it weren't for the shit he'll be in with his dad if he gets Max in trouble, Billy would keep skating until the very last moment. Push it to the limit.

But he can't, so he stops. Only his timing is wrong, and he falls. Not for the first time but his ankle twists and— 'Fuck!'

'Billy, come on!' Max peers over the side of the pool, face flushed and eyes wide. 'Shit, are you OK?'

He's flat on his ass, board flipped over beside him with its wheels still spinning; his ankle throbs in time with the pounding of his heart. 'I'm fine,' he grits out. 'Get out of here.'

'But—' Max looks over her shoulder, back to Billy. She bites her lip. 

'Get lost, Maxine'—his heart pumps, sweat sticks uncomfortably on his skin—'I'll catch you up.'

'OK,' Max says, breathless and hesitant and then she's gone.

Her feet slap over the concrete, fading as she gets further away, and Billy slumps back on his elbows in the grimy bottom of the pool.

The concrete is rough against his bare arms and warmed from the sun. When he tries to stand pain shoots up his shin. 'Shit.' He grits his teeth and rolls onto his knees. It's not the worst sprain he's had, but it's knocked the wind out of him and he can't get his footing.

'Hey, what are you doing in my pool?' There's a guy glaring down at Billy from the edge of the pool, hands on his hips. The afternoon sun beats down on him catching gold in his dark hair, bringing a flush to his face. There's a hint of a tan in his skin, but he's a lot paler than Billy. He's wearing hip-hugging flared jeans and a Corvette t-shirt.

'Going for a swim,' Billy says, pushing himself to his feet, 'it's hot out.'

The guy narrows his eyes. 'The pool's empty.'

Billy looks around, a look of mock-surprise on his face. 'Well, darn'—he snaps his fingers—'that'd be why my dive didn't go so well.'

'Guess so,' the guy says, with a snort. He cocks a hip. 'So, you planning on staying in there all day or…'

'Maybe.'

'How about I rephrase that: you can't stay in there all day.'

'You sure about that?'

'You're pretty cocky for a guy who's been caught trespassing.' The guy looks Billy up and down, brows raised.

Billy's pulse jumps. He considers the guy a moment longer: he's maybe a little taller than Billy, slimmer but wiry. Billy could take him, but he's not sure he wants to. So, he hobbles toward the ladder, board tucked under his arm, and climbs.

The guy reaches a hand down to Billy and Billy takes it without thinking, letting himself be pulled out of the pool and onto the lawn. He's intensely aware of how sweaty his hand is, how dirty and rough it is, against this guy's soft, clean skin. 

There are moles dotted along the guy's arms, and Billy's gaze is caught by a cluster of three—a tiny triangle—on the inside of his bicep. The guy clears his throat and Billy snatches his hand back, wipes it on his jeans.

Neither of them say anything as they consider each other, standing three feet apart in the shade of a palm tree. The hairs on Billy's arms slowly raise, like when you rub your feet on the rug to get a charge so you can zap someone. His stomach is flipping over in slow motion. He swallows thickly and takes a step back, wincing when he puts too much weight on his bad ankle.

The other guy's eyes trail down from where they'd been boring into Billy's, taking the long route to Billy's ankle. 'Are you hurt?'

'I've had worse.' Billy's voice sounds strange to his own ears. It's probably the sun and the fall. He licks his lips. 'Right. Well. See ya.'

'You should put some ice on that ankle before it swells up.'

'Sure thing, Mom.'

The guy moves over and levels Billy with a dubious look. 'I don't have to be nice. You broke into my house. There's nothing stopping me from calling the cops.'

Billy is 99% certain this guy is bluffing. He doesn't know why but he feels it in his gut: this guy won't rat him out. But he isn't going to take the chance. Not with how pissed his dad will be and not with his record, besides. It's been a long while since he was taken into the police station but back then he was a minor. B&E when you're nineteen is a whole different story.

No way this is worth the risk.

'They'll have to catch me first,' Billy says and shoves him, hard, sending the guy sprawling onto his ass.

'Hey! What the fuck?'

Billy turns and runs, clenching his teeth against the pain. It isn't until he's at a safe enough distance to slow down that he realises he dropped his board back there.

Well, fuck.

—180—

The scent of varnish and wax hangs in the air, cloying in the stifling backroom of the surf shop. Billy turns the screwdriver to adjust the truck on the board he's working on but it's no use. It's too old and worn out.

'Fucking fuck.' He throws the screwdriver across the room and crosses his arms. 'I want my own fucking board back.'

Max raises a brow, then continues scribbling on the back of her own board with a black marker, her lips curved in an amused smirk that makes Billy's blood boil. He balls up a scrap of paper and hurls it at her. It glances off the side of her head but she only stops scribbling long enough to flip Billy off before she's back to her work.

It's been two days since he left his board in that rich guy's backyard. He'd gone back for it the next day, but he couldn't find it. It was probably thrown in the trash. Terry, aka Bear, who owns the surf shop, gave him this one in exchange for working here, but if he can't fix it, he'll have to save for a new one. Start all over again. Not like he'll be able to skate properly for a while, anyway, with his busted ankle.

'Fuck.'

Max snorts. Her marker squeaks as she colours in the design she's been doodling. It's been grating on Billy's nerves for the past half hour and he's about to tell her to quit it when the sound stops. 

'Oh, shoot,' Max says, standing and shoving her shit into her backpack, 'I told mom I'd be home an hour ago.' She looks up at Billy. 'Are you coming?'

'No.'

'I thought you were meant to help paint the garage?'

'Whatever,' Billy says and flips Max off.

Max rolls her eyes. 'You're a dick.' She slings her backpack over her shoulder, pulling her hair out from under the straps, then rushes out of the room.

The murmur of her voice drifts back—'He's in there'—and Billy figures she's talking to Bear, who hadn't been in when Billy and Max got there. But moments later the rich boy whose yard he and Max had broken into comes through to the backroom. Billy is hidden behind a rack of surfboards but he can see the door. Still, he scoots back further, keeps quiet.

There's a pair of sunglasses nestled in the rich boy's hair that probably cost more than all of Billy's clothes combined, and he's biting his lip as he peers around the room. 'Billy?'

OK. How the fuck does this guy know his name? Billy pushes against the wall and wheels his chair into the middle of the room. 'What do you want?'

The guy blinks at him. He's got big, dark eyes. 'Are you always this rude?'

'Nope,' Billy says, 'guess it's your lucky day.'

'Whatever. I brought your skateboard back.' The guy holds out the skateboard to Billy with both hands, long fingers curled around the wood.

Billy's heart gives a little kick. He clears his throat and wheels closer. When he's about a foot from the guy he stands and snatches the board from him. 'How did you find me?'

'Your name's on the board'—the guy points to where 'Billy' is spelt out in large block letters beneath the Powerflex logo—'so I asked around.' He shrugs. 'Someone recognised your board and said you usually hang out here.'

'Well done, Columbo,' Billy says. Is this guy for real?

'Steve.'

'Huh?'

'My name's Steve,' Steve says. He sinks his hands into the back pockets of his tight jeans, red Lacoste polo stretching across his chest with the movement. 'If you wanted to know.'

Heat crawls up from Billy's jaw. He did want to know but doesn't say so. 'Got a last name?'

'Harrington.'

'Well, Steve Harrington, thanks for bringing the board back. Now you can fuck back off to your fancy mansion with a clear conscience.'

'Are you kidding…' Steve puts his hands on his hips. 'I didn't come here to clear my conscience, you asshole. I should have thrown your stupid board in the trash.' He throws his hands up. 'Fuck me for trying to be nice, right?' He turns and heads for the door.

Billy bites the inside of his cheek against a smile. Pissing Steve off has turned his day around even more than getting his board back. But he doesn't want Steve to leave just yet, so he says, 'Quitter.'

Steve pauses, shoulders hunching. He turns on his heel. 'What?'

'You gave up pretty easily.' Billy fixes his mouth into a cocky smirk.

'I'm not giving up. I came here to give you your board back. You've got it. I'm done.'

Billy's smirk falters. 'That's all you wanted?'

'Yes.'

Disappointment settles heavy and cold in Billy's stomach. 'Fine. Nice knowing you.'

'Sure,' Steve says, but he doesn't turn to leave again. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, looks at Billy like he wants to say something, glances down. 'How's the ankle?'

'I'll live.'

'That's a relief,' Steve says, lips twitching. He opens his mouth, closes it again, shifts from one foot to the other. 'When it's, uh…when it's better you can come over and skate in the pool, if you want. No one will bother you.'

'Seriously?' Billy narrows his eyes. 'What do you get out of this?'

'Nothing,' Steve says, too quickly. 'I mean, I guess it'll be nice to know someone else is there. Or whatever.'

'Aww,' Billy coos. 'Poor lonely little rich boy.' He snaps his fingers. 'Just like Richie Rich, huh?'

A flush, that is definitely not attractive, stains Steve's cheeks. He balls his hands into fists at his sides. 'Fuck you. Do you want to skate in the pool or would you prefer breaking into another house and getting busted by someone who _will_ call the cops on your ass?'

Billy quirks a brow at him, stays silent. 

Steve sighs and walks back out of the room saying, 'Forget it,' as he goes.

Billy hobbles after him, waiting until Steve is at the shop's door before calling out, 'See you later, Richie Rich!'

When Steve shoots him an exasperated look Billy only laughs. He doesn't know what it is, but he already senses that riling Steve up, getting under his skin, is going to be fun.

Steve mutters something that sounds like, 'I'm going to regret this,' shaking his head as he walks away.

Oh, Billy thinks, this is going to be a _lot_ of fun.

—CARVE—

Max's long hair tangles behind her as she skates faster, board curving up the side of the empty pool, narrowly avoiding running over Billy's legs where they dangle over the edge.

'Watch it, Maxine,' Billy says.

Max flips him off, then perfectly executes the trick she's been working on all day. Billy smiles. She's a damn good skater.

There's a bite in the sun beating down on the back of Billy's neck; he's going to burn. He stretches his ankle—the ache is dull, compressed by the bandages wrapped tight around his foot—and thinks about skating some more. 

It's been a few days since Steve Harrington showed up at the surf shop with Billy's board and Billy had spent too many minutes between debating whether he should take Steve up on his offer. Saying yes felt too much like accepting charity or admitting something Billy doesn't want to admit. Saying no…well, that never felt like an option.

Billy wipes his arm across his forehead, no breeze to cool the sweat on his skin, then leans back on his hands. He'd planned to come alone but Max had seen him leaving the house, board tucked under his arm, and demanded he let her come with him. Part of Billy is glad, though he wouldn't admit it to Max. He's not sure he wants to be alone with Steve. If Steve even shows up.

A shadow slants across Billy and his stomach flips. He turns his head. Steve is standing behind him, a pair of blue gym shorts hugging his thighs, a burgundy and white ringer tee stretched tight over his chest. A popsicle is melting down his forearm, red sticky rivulets dripping toward his elbow. He licks along the side of his hand and Billy goes hot all over.

'Hey,' Steve says, lapping at the popsicle in a way that Billy is certain must be illegal _somewhere_ , 'I didn't think you'd come.'

Billy shrugs one shoulder and forces himself to look away from Steve's red mouth. 'Nowhere else to skate.'

'Nowhere else in all of California, huh?' Steve sits beside Billy, their knees knocking together.

'Whatever,' Billy says. 

'That your sister?' Steve waves his popsicle in Max's direction.

'Stepsister.'

'She's good,' Steve says.

'Yeah,' Billy says, 'but I'm better.'

Sunlight twinkles in Steve's eyes. He leans on one hand, turning toward Billy. The scent of coconut tanning lotion clings to him. 'You teach her everything she knows, huh?'

'Something like that.'

Steve snorts. 'Gonna show me?'

'I don't perform on command.'

'Maybe you're not up to it.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Yeah.'

Irritation laced with satisfaction simmers in Billy's blood. It seems like Steve might enjoy riling Billy up, getting under his skin, as much as Billy likes doing it to Steve. It's in the spark in his eyes, the tilt of his mouth, as he looks at Billy and Billy looks back.

Neither of them notice that Max finished skating and has climbed out of the pool until she nudges Billy's shoulder with her board. 'You weren't watching.'

'This brat here is Max.' Billy flicks Max's leg and Max kicks him. 'Max, this is Richie Rich. I mean Steve.'

'We met the other day,' Steve says, ignoring Billy's jibe, 'at the shop.'

'I remember,' Max says. She pulls a hair tie off of her wrist and ties her hair back. 'Thanks for letting us skate in your pool.'

'That's OK,' Steve says. 'Your brother's going to show me some tricks.'

'Stepbrother,' Max and Billy correct in unison.

The corners of Steve's mouth tick up. 'Sorry. Your _step_ brother was going to show me how good a skater he is.' He turns to Billy, levelling him with a challenging look. 'Right?'

'Uh, yeah.' Billy's tongue feels thick and stupid. He shakes himself and grabs his board, then jumps down into the pool. His ankle throbs in protest but he ignores it, looking up at Steve. 'Prepare to be amazed, Richie Rich.'

Once again, his body takes over, guiding him through the motions as he shreds the pool—twisting and turning and pulling off every trick with perfect timing—until he glides to a stop. Sweat runs down the back of his neck, pours off his forehead, and his heart thrums happily behind his ribs.

Pride wells in Billy's chest when he catches the impressed look on Steve's face. He flips his board up with his toe and catches it. 'So, I'm pretty great, huh?'

Max rolls her eyes and makes a disgusted noise but Steve laughs.

'Yeah,' Steve says, hands resting between the spread of his thighs, 'you're all right.' He shifts, bringing one knee up to his chest.

If Billy angled his head just so, he could probably see up Steve's shorts. Heat floods him and he looks away, fingers gripped tight over his board. He moves toward the ladder and climbs out.

Steve stands, settling his hands on his hips, and his gaze on Billy. Billy holds Steve's gaze, returns it, caught for the second time in this intense fucking staring contest with him. He's not sure if they don't want to look away or if they can't.

Max clears her throat. Her brow is furrowed, like she doesn't know what's going on, but she's still annoyed by whatever it is.

'Um. You guys must be pretty hot,' Steve says, cutting his gaze away from Billy. He gestures toward the white-washed house. 'I've got more popsicles inside. Or beer.'

'Beer?' Max says, perking up.

'Not for you, Maxine.' Billy scrubs a hand in Max's hair and she scowls.

'No, of course not,' Steve says on a laugh. 'There's pop, though.'

'Sounds good.'

'You wanna come inside?'

Billy and Max share a look that says they're not going to miss the opportunity to see inside this mansion and Billy says, 'Lead on.'

Steve smiles and turns toward the house. The distance between the pool and the back door is wider than the whole plot of land Billy's house is on, the stretch of manicured lawn lined with palm trees and Roman style columns. It's like being in another world, one where Billy feels like a fucking alien.

Inside it's cool, after being out in the summer heat, but the house is bright and airy, large windows letting the light in. Steve takes them straight through to the kitchen, barely giving Billy time to get the impression of more wealth than he could have imagined.

Steve gets out a can of beer each for him and Billy and a bottle of soda for Max.

Max takes it with a murmured thanks and then wanders off when Steve tells her she can look around if she wants.

Silence settles between Billy and Steve now that they're alone. It itches beneath Billy's skin and he fights the urge to squirm. Instead, he leans back against the counter, crossing his arms and legs; Steve stands by the island, across from Billy. 

'So, what do your parents do to have a house like this?' Billy waves his beer can around the spacious kitchen. 'Or are you "old money"?'

'This is actually my grandparents' house. My grandpa was in banking, but he…died recently.'

'That sucks,' Billy says.

'Thanks.' Steve ducks his head. 'My dad didn't like the idea of my grandma being here alone so he sent me out for the summer to, I don't know, keep her company I guess.'

'You're not from California?'

'Indiana,' Steve says and Billy's stomach sinks knowing Steve doesn't actually live here. 'It's better than spending summer with my dad on my back about college and my future. But my grandma's always out at functions or playing bridge with her friends, or something. She has more of a social life than I do.' He huffs and takes a sip of his beer. 'I mean, I don't even know anyone here.'

'You know me,' Billy says, a flush creeping up his neck. The words leave him feeling exposed in a way he doesn't want to look at too closely.

Steve smiles. 'Yeah.' He takes a step forward, licks his lips. It looks like he wants to say something, or do something, but thinks better of it. He clears his throat and points at Billy's chest. 'I like your shirt,' he says, in a way that suggests he's only saying it to fill the silence. 

Billy blinks and looks down. 'You like Aerosmith?'

'Well, I've never really listened to them,' Steve says, cheeks flushed, 'but the shirt is cool.'

Billy looks Steve up and down, ignoring the way his gaze stutters at the hem of Steve's shorts on the way down, at the hollow of his throat on the way back up. He swallows and runs his tongue along his bottom lip. 'I bet you like disco.'

'Disco's cool,' Steve says, with another shrug, like he doesn't realise Billy is making fun of him. 'But I like whatever. I like rock music, too.'

Billy bites his lip against a smile. 'Sure.'

'I do,' Steve insists. 'I like David Bowie.'

'OK, Bowie is acceptable,' Billy says, 'but you gotta listen to Aerosmith, man.' He shifts his weight. 'I'll bring some records for you to borrow next time.'

'Thanks,' Steve says. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. 'Or we could listen to them together?'

Billy's heart gives a funny little kick. He's about to tell Steve that would be cool when Max yells out, 'Oh my god, Billy, you have to see how big the TV is!'

His stomach swoops like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have and he gulps his beer. 'Is it as big as your head?' he calls out and follows Max's voice into the living room.

Max is sprawled before a television set that is, admittedly, bigger than any Billy has seen in someone's home before.

'Here,' Steve says, throwing the clicker to Max.

She catches it, eyes wide—'Neat!'—and starts flicking through the channels at a dizzying speed.

'You guys can come over and watch TV whenever you want,' Steve says. He's talking to both of them but looking only at Billy.

'Awesome!' Max says. ' _Star Trek_ will look so much cooler on this screen.'

'Awesome,' Steve says, still looking at Billy, smiling now.

'Yeah,' Billy says, heart hammering a furious rhythm, 'awesome.'

—AIR—

Billy paces the length of the porch, his case of records propped by the door, his stomach in knots. Sweat pours off of him, faded Zeppelin shirt sticking to him uncomfortably; he blames the long walk up the drive and nothing more.

The sounds of traffic are inaudible from here, but Billy's heart is thudding hard in his ears and his stomach is full of lead. 'Jesus Christ, Hargrove,' he mutters to himself, 'stop being such a wimp.'

He thumps his fist against his thigh, grits his teeth, then rings the bell. The door swings open almost immediately.

'Hey,' Steve says, one hand propped on the door jamb, eyes bright and smile wide.

'What the fuck,' Billy says. 'Do you just hang out by your door all day?'

'Uh, sorry,' Steve says, flushing, 'I was…' He trails off, waving a hand that Billy supposes is meant to indicate whatever Steve was doing.

'OK…' Billy licks his lips. 'Well, I brought those records I said you could borrow.' He juts his chin at the case still sitting by the door.

'Oh.' Steve's shoulders slump. 'Um. Thanks.'

Billy shifts his weight. He considers Steve and his stupidly big dark eyes and his pink pink lips, and says, 'Look, I don't like loaning them out, so I'll just stick around while you listen to them and then take them home. OK?'

Steve's face brightens. 'OK,' he says and opens the door wider, stepping aside, 'come in.'

The weight of the records distracts Billy from how his arm brushes against Steve's chest when he moves past him and into the entrance hall, how he can smell Steve's cologne and hairspray. He grits his teeth again and says, 'Where to?'

'This way,' Steve says and leads Billy to the living room with the big TV set Max had fallen in love with. 'The record player's over there.' He points across the room to an older style stereo: varnished teak on splayed legs, with cream and gold fittings. 

The whole place looks like it hasn't been decorated since the 1950s. It's fancy, though. Expensive. _Chic_.

Billy's out of place here. He pushes that thought down and flips open his case of records. He'd spent a few hours last night going through his collection, picking out the essentials, telling himself he was only righting a wrong by educating Steve on the difference between good music and _disco_. 

The fact that he'd never bothered doing this before, not even with chicks he'd fooled around with, was something he forcefully ignored. But then most of them probably had decent taste in music, though Billy had never asked. Steve doesn't. And if Billy is going to hang out with Steve—only so he can skate in his pool—then he has to be educated. That's all there is to it.

'Are these all Aerosmith?' Steve's voice is close behind him, and a shiver threatens to run up Billy's spine.

Billy clears his throat and turns around. 'Nah, I figured I'd bring a few different bands.'

'Cool,' Steve says. He's standing way too close and seems to realise because he shuffles back. 'I'll grab us some beers while you put one on.'

Billy lets out a breath and shakes himself, turning back to his records. Aerosmith started all of this so he picks out _Toys in the Attic_ , sliding the vinyl from its cover, and fitting it onto the turntable. There's a few seconds of hissing when he drops the needle before the song bursts from the speakers.

'This song's pretty cool,' Steve says, handing Billy a beer.

The can is cold against Billy's warm palm. He curls his fingers around it, pops the ring, and takes a long gulp. 'Have I converted you from disco already?'

Steve rolls his eyes. 'I told you I don't only listen to disco.'

'Sure, sure, I bet you have a poster of Donna Summer on your wall.'

'Shut up. Anyway, she's hot.'

'I guess.'

'I like David Bowie, remember,' Steve adds. Billy doesn't know if Steve is trying to prove a point or if he's trying to impress Billy. 'And I like Hall and Oates. They're not disco.'

'You're right.' Billy smirks. If Steve was aiming for impressive he missed the mark. 'They're worse than disco.' 

'Fine. I guess I don't know much about music.' Steve shrugs one shoulder. 'But I know what I like.'

'Yeah, what Billboard tells you to like,' Billy scoffs. 'I bet you don't listen to anything that doesn't chart.'

'It just doesn't matter much to me.'

Billy groans. 'I don't get people like you at all.'

'So you don't like music if it's popular? That seems kinda snobby.'

'No, I don't like music _just because_ it's popular.' Billy sneers. At the flicker of hurt on Steve's face he adds, 'Bowie's cool, though. Guess you don't have completely shitty taste.' He crosses his arms. 'Just don't tell me you like ABBA.'

Steve stays silent. His cheeks are all pink but there's a defiant glint in his eyes.

'Oh my god, dude, no!'

'What?' Steve says, defensively. 'Their music's catchy!'

'That's it, you don't deserve to listen to Aerosmith,' Billy says, reaching over like he's going to take the needle off the record.

Steve catches Billy's wrist, laughing. 'No, no, leave it on.' His fingers are hot on Billy's skin, curling into Billy's hammering pulse. 'I like it.'

'Fine,' Billy says, voice strained. He snatches his wrist from Steve's hold and clears his throat. 'Then shut up and listen.'

Steve snorts. 'OK,' he says and sits on the floor with his back against the sofa, one knee bent, the other leg straight out in front of him. He rests his beer can on his knee, fingers curled around it and tapping out the rhythm of the song.

Billy sits opposite, watching Steve listen to the music, heart somewhere in his throat. If he stops and thinks too much, this is all going to seem surreal. A guy like Billy, in a house like this, hanging out with a guy like Steve. Completely fucking surreal.

'Oh, hey, I know this one!' Steve says, all proud, when “Walk this Way” comes on.

Billy hides his smile behind his can of beer.

They spend the afternoon listening to Billy's records—Aerosmith and Black Sabbath and AC/DC for starters—drinking beer, and some of the whisky left from Grandpa Harrington's collection. Not enough to get drunk but enough that Billy feels loose in a way he rarely does, except for when he's skating.

Steve is good company—surprisingly so—and conversation flows easier than Billy had thought it would. He's good at running his mouth, good at playing the charmer, but he's not usually good at this. Steve asks Billy about skating—'Why'd you start?' 'Can't surf all day'—and Billy asks Steve about Indiana—'You got a favourite cow?' 'Fuck off, I'm not a farmer'—and any remaining silences are comfortable if a little charged.

During one lull in their conversation, Billy's lying on his back, air drumming along with Phil Rudd, when Steve huffs out a laugh. He opens his eye a crack. Steve is on his stomach, propped on his elbows, barely a foot from Billy.

There's an amused twinkle in Steve's eyes but heat too. It sends electricity skittering along Billy's skin, lighting up his nerves. He licks his lips.

'Hey,' Billy says, 'does David Cassidy know you raided his closet?'

'Huh?'

Billy rolls onto his stomach, propping himself on his arms so he's mirroring Steve, and slides one finger under the puka shell necklace sitting snugly beneath Steve's Adam's apple.

Steve swallows and Billy can feel the movement of his throat against the back of his hand. 'Um,' Steve says, 'I—'

Billy tugs and the necklace digs into Steve's neck, making his skin go white, pulling Steve closer. His gaze flicks between Steve's eyes and his mouth, down to his neck, back to his mouth. In the back of his mind he knows exactly what he wants to do, what he's pretty sure he's _going_ to do and he shifts closer, can feel Steve's breath on his face. His heart races and then—

_Holy smoke and sweet desire_  
_Sweet desire_  
_Sweet desire_  
_Sweet desire_

The skipping record jolts Billy back to reality and he lets go of Steve's necklace, the elastic snapping against his skin. 'I forgot this song skips,' he murmurs and jumps up to move the needle. He runs a hand along the back of his neck, staring down at the turntable, his mind spinning along at 33 1/3.

'I'm gonna grab another beer,' Steve says from behind Billy. 'Want one?'

'Yep,' Billy says, not turning around. What the fuck is he doing? 

When Steve gets back neither of them mention the necklace incident, and though the atmosphere is a little strained, the rest of the afternoon and early evening go smoothly enough. They eat frozen pizza that burns their fingers, watch _The Six Million Dollar Man_ on the huge TV, and talk more than Billy has talked in a long time.

Soon it's dark out, the living room windows staring blankly back at them from behind parted barkcloth drapes. 'I should get home,' Billy says, wiping his hands on his jeans after he wolfs down the last slice of pizza. 

'Oh, OK,' Steve says, those three syllables loaded with what Billy is certain is disappointment.

Billy almost says he'll stay longer but he can't. So, he packs his records away, taking longer than he needs to, stealing glances at Steve the whole time. When he's done, he locks the case and turns to Steve. 'I'll see you 'round.'

'Sure.' Steve slides his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. 'I'll walk you out.'

They pause at the door, and Billy can't make himself step outside. Not yet.

'I had fun,' Steve says. 

'Yeah,' Billy says, aiming for noncommittal but coming off over eager.

'Your music's cool.'

'I know.'

Steve continues like Billy hadn't said anything, 'So, if you wanted to come over again sometime, or maybe go to the movies or something, that would be cool…too.' He frowns, looks a little lost. 'There's a new James Bond.'

Billy's heart thuds hard. He fixes his face into an amused smirk. 'Are you asking me on a date, Harrington?'

'No!' Steve hugs his arms around his stomach. 'Well. Maybe?'

Billy snorts but the bottom of his stomach has dropped out. Steve is asking him on a date. It's pretty gutsy of him but maybe he'd felt it, too, when Billy had nearly— Had nearly— Billy licks his lips and looks Steve over. 'I'm not a fag.'

Steve flushes and he steps back. 'Right, no,' he says. 'I wasn't— I didn't think…I'll see you. Sometime.' He turns to go back into the house.

'Hey, wait!'

'What?'

'I didn't say no.'

'You— What?' Steve settles his hands on his hips, moves forward cautiously. 'You are so fucking confusing.'

'It's part of my charm,' Billy says.

'If you say so.'

'So, tomorrow: you, me, James Bond, at the Criterion,' Billy says, hefting the record case. 'Don't pick me up.'

'Uh, OK…'

'And Harrington?' 

'Yeah?'

'You're paying.'

—GRIND—

Billy is getting ready for his _date with Steve_ —daubing cologne onto his pulse points, wrangling his curls—when his door bursts open. He wheels around, about to chew Max out for not knocking, but he stops short at the sight of his dad standing in the centre of his room. His arms are crossed—tattoos, relics of his military career, peek out from rolled-up sleeves—and his nostrils are flared.

'Dad—' Billy's voice is lost in the thrum of guitar and drums.

His dad stalks over to his record player, pulling the needle off, plunging the room into silence.

The screech sets Billy's teeth on edge and irritation flickers within him. 'Be careful with that!' 

'Watch your mouth, boy.'

'Sorry.'

'Anything else you're sorry for?'

Billy frowns. He doesn't remember doing anything wrong, lately, but that doesn't count for much. 'No?'

His dad huffs, like he expected that answer but is disappointed, anyway. 'The garage, Billy. You were meant to paint it.'

'Right,' Billy says, 'I forgot.'

'That's the third time this week you forgot.'

'It's no big deal. I'll do it tomorrow.'

'No big deal, huh?' His dad steps forward, jabbing a finger at Billy. 'It's no wonder you can't hold down a job with an attitude like that.'

Billy flushes. 'I _have_ a job.'

'Selling surfboards to beach bums and other losers like you isn't what I'd call a job.'

Billy flushes. It's not like he doesn't know he's a loser—not good enough for college, not good enough for pro skating—but his dad says it like he never believed any better.

'You know you're the reason your mother left,' his dad continues. 'Not that I blame her.' It's not the first time he's thrown those words at Billy but they hit just as hard each time. He looks Billy up and down. 'Why are you all dressed up?'

'I'm going out.'

'Think again, pal. You're grounded.'

Billy blinks in disbelief. 'You can't ground me. I'm 19!'

'Then start acting like it,' his dad says. 'And while you're under my roof, you live by my rules, remember?'

Anger flares in Billy's gut. He knows he should leave it, not push it. But he's never been good at knowing his limits. 'This is stupid, you can't stop me from going out.' He steps forward to move around his dad—frustration and the desire to see Steve making him more reckless than usual—but his dad fists his hands in Billy's shirt. Shoves him back until he hits the wall.

'I told you to watch your mouth,' his dad says, voice low. He backhands Billy so hard that Billy's ears ring and his teeth knock together. The class ring he proudly wears cuts into Billy's lip. 'You're not going anywhere tonight, and you're grounded until I say so. Understood?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good.' His dad lets him go, clapping a hand to his shoulder, squeezing a little too hard. 'You'll paint the garage tomorrow.' He turns to leave but pauses by the door. 'And get a haircut. You look like a fairy with that long hair.'

Billy nods, mutely, and then his dad is gone, shutting the door firmly behind him. It's like he's taken all the air with him, sealing off the room. Billy swallows down a scream.

' _Fuck_.' 

His heart is racing and his face throbs as he slides down the wall until he's sitting with his knees bent, hands fisted in his hair. Unshed tears prick his eyes and tighten his throat.

It was meant to be a good night: watch the stupid James Bond film with Steve, maybe take him to his secret spot after so he could make a move. But now—

He could sneak out and see Steve, anyway. It wouldn't be the first time and it would be worth it. He runs his tongue along his lip, tastes iron. That settles it. Steve can't see him like this. 

Billy's dad was right: he's a loser. 

And Steve deserves better.

—SLIDE—

There's a sliver of a white moon hanging in the inky sky, stars winking down through the light pollution. A warm breeze, whispering through the palm trees, is the only sound aside from the pounding of Billy's blood in his ears, the skateboard's wheels gliding over the swimming pool.

It doesn't quite drown out the echo of his dad's words but it helps him ignore it. The wind on his face as he goes faster and faster stings enough that he can forget the smarting bruise. He licks his lips, tastes blood when he reopens the wound, skates harder.

Skating alone is different than skating when there's someone to watch him. Billy isn't putting on a performance, now, not trying to do the most impressive moves, prove his worth. Only trying to sink into the feeling of being one with his board, of soaring. Letting himself believe everything can be okay.

It can be _okay_.

Blinding light floods the yard, and he stumbles, skidding down the side of the pool, until he's sprawled on his ass at the bottom.

'Billy?'

Billy groans. Fucking Steve Harrington. He's a goddamn hazard. Billy should've gone to skate somewhere else; he doesn't know why he didn't but when he'd grabbed his board and climbed out his window, he found himself walking here and couldn't bring himself to turn back. 

The ladder creaks and footfalls slap over the concrete, stopping somewhere near his shoulder. 'What the fuck are you doing here? You stand me up, leave me waiting at the theatre like a fucking idiot, and then you break into my yard in the middle of the night to _skate_?' Steve nudges Billy's shoulder with his toe.

Billy doesn't move.

'Billy?' Steve repeats, concern filling his voice now. A hand lands on Billy's shoulder, shaking him. 'Billy, are you OK?'

'No,' Billy grits out, 'some idiot blinded me and I came off my fucking board— _again_ —and nearly brained myself.'

Steve lets out a long breath and shoves Billy's shoulder. 'Asshole. I thought you were dead or something.'

'Skull's too thick to break that easily.'

There's a soft snort and then a hiss of breath. 'Oh, shit, you're bleeding.'

'Hm?' Billy blinks his eyes open, pushes himself up. He touches his head, but it's not wet. The skin on his arm pulls tight with his movement, though, and it stings. He turns his arm over. There's a large graze all down the outside of his forearm, red and nasty. 'Shit.'

'You can clean it up inside, if you want.' Steve is crouched by Billy, bottom lip sucked between his teeth, hands braced on his knees.

Part of Billy wants to tell Steve to shove it, because that's what he does, and this is too much. But he'd been lying in bed, face and pride stinging, wondering if Steve had waited for him, if Steve was disappointed or maybe relieved that Billy hadn't shown, and he'd come here even though he could've skated somewhere else. He may not have had the guts to knock on the door but he can't deny he came here hoping to see Steve.

So he nods and lets Steve help him to his feet and follows Steve inside. The house is dark and quiet; neither of them speak, even though Billy wants to. Wants to let one of his asshole-ish quips roll from his tongue, wants to tell Steve he didn't stand him up and that he'd wanted nothing more than to share a tub of popcorn and watch a stupid James Bond movie with him. But he stays silent, lets Steve lead the way to what Billy guesses is one of many bathrooms.

It's fucking huge—of course it is—and Billy whistles low. 'Not bad,' he says, 'but do you have a bigger bathroom? This one's a little cramped.' 

Steve rolls his eyes and turns to dig through a cabinet, coming back with a bottle, some gauze and a handful of bandages. 'Let me see,' he says, reaching for Billy's arm.

'I can do it myself.'

'Come on, man, it'll be awkward doing it yourself.'

Billy stares Steve down. 'I'm not your charity case.'

'I didn't say you were. Just…let me help.' Steve waggles the fingers of his outstretched hand. 'I want to help.'

Billy chews the corner of his thumbnail and then he finally relents, holding his arm out to Steve. 'Thanks, nurse,' he says. 'Hey, when you're done with my arm, how about a sponge bath?'

'You have to buy me dinner first,' Steve says with a wink that makes Billy flush, then his expression sobers. 

Billy guesses that Steve's remembered their date that didn't happen. He shifts in place but can't find the words to explain why he didn't show.

The astringent scent of disinfectant fills Billy's nose when Steve opens the bottle and pours some onto a piece of gauze. He wipes it over Billy's arm and it fucking stings but Billy digs his nails into his thigh and grits his teeth. Sinks into the pain.

Steve cleans and wraps Billy's injured arm methodically, his touch light if not entirely clinical, fingers lingering as he finishes and drops Billy's arm. 'There you go,' he says.

'Thanks,' Billy murmurs, face hot and arm tingling.

Silence falls between them, almost tangible, crawling under Billy's skin. He doesn't want to leave, not yet, but he's not sure he should stay. Not sure if Steve wants him to. 'I didn't stand you up,' he says, when Steve turns to put the disinfectant away.

'Huh?' 

Billy swallows thickly. 'I was grounded.'

Steve crosses his arms over his stomach and raises a brow. 'Aren't you too old to be grounded?'

'Try telling my dad that,' Billy says.

Steve's gaze shifts to Billy's face. Something flickers in his eyes when they light on the bruise there. 'Did he…'

'Don't,' Billy says. He shouldn't have brought this up. Should have said he'd forgotten their date, or he got into a fight, or made up any excuse that didn't involve his dad.

'You can tell me,' Steve says. He moves closer to Billy, raises his hand like he might touch Billy's face.

Anger sparks in Billy's gut, and he fists his hands in Steve's shirt and shoves him back. Steve hits the wall with a thud and Billy can feel it judder through him because they're pressed tight together. Billy doesn't hit Steve; he stares at him, shoves him harder, but he doesn't hit him. He can't. 

He opens his mouth to tell Steve never to ask about his dad again but instead he crumples, head falling to Steve's shoulder, hands going slack, pressed open-palmed to Steve's chest.

There's a moment where Steve tenses but then his arms come up around Billy, holding onto him tight. He doesn't say anything—no 'it's okay' or other platitudes—and Billy's grateful. 

'Should I— Do you need anything?' Steve asks.

'No, just…' Billy lets out a long, shuddering breath. 'Shut up.'

Steve huffs a laugh. 'OK.' He rubs his hand between Billy's shoulder blades and repeats, 'OK.'

Billy can't remember the last time anyone hugged him let alone held him like this. It's been years, at least. And Steve is warm and he smells good and he's solid. Safe. 

They stand silently, holding onto each other, until Billy finally pulls away. He doesn't move back, though, stays in the circle of Steve's arms. Steve's heart thumps beneath Billy's palm and Billy curls his fingers into Steve's chest.

Something is building between them; it's like the electricity Billy had felt when he'd nearly kissed Steve yesterday. But it's deeper. Bigger. Billy feels it right down to his fucking toes.

'Billy,' Steve says, gaze flicking to Billy's mouth, 'can I—'

Billy surges forward, closing the distance between them, catching Steve's mouth with his own. It's hot and soft and Billy wants more. He slides his hands from Steve's chest, to cup his jaw, fingers tangling in Steve's hair. 

Steve makes a small desperate noise and angles his head, licking at Billy's lips until they part so he can slide their tongues together. 

The kiss is deep, but gentle, and heat rushes Billy from head to toe. He's never been kissed like this before. With intent and determination. Where the kiss wasn't just means to an end.

But there is passion in it, too. All the tension that's been building between them reaching its crest. It's going to break soon, Billy can feel it. He wants it to. Fuck, he wants it.

Steve sucks Billy's bottom lip between his, teeth grazing the sensitive skin and Billy hisses in a breath when it catches the cut in the corner. It stings but he doesn't care. Except Steve pulls away and says, 'You OK?' breathing heavily.

'Peachy,' Billy says, leaning in again, lips brushing Steve's, but a hand to his chest stops him.

'You're bleeding,' Steve says, brow furrowed. He runs his thumb just below Billy's mouth, little sparks left in the wake of his touch.

'It's fine.'

But Steve is already pulling away, turning to get a washcloth. 'Here,' he says, reaching for Billy's face. There's a soft look in his eyes that makes Billy's stomach flip, but there's something else in his gaze. Something that looks like pity. 'Let me—'

Billy jerks back. He doesn't need Steve's fucking pity. People pity losers and Billy's not a— He's _not_. 'I can take care of myself,' he says, snatching the washcloth from Steve, and pressing it to his mouth. 'See?'

'I know you can.' Steve sighs. 'I just wanted to _help_. That's what people do when they—'

'I don't need your help or your pity. I'm not a fucking loser.' 

'Whoa, hold up, I didn't say you were?'

'Don't act like you're not thinking it,' Billy scoffs. 'Standing here in your fancy fucking bathroom tending to my wounds like some kinda saint.' He's not making sense, not really, but once Billy starts he can't stop. It's like he's been doused in kerosene, just waiting for the flame that will set him alight. 'Richie Rich, patron saint of fuckups and losers, huh?'

'Jesus Christ'—Steve shakes his head—'I like you, Billy. Like a _lot_. But you don't make it easy.'

'Why should I?'

'Yeah, OK,' Steve says, not looking at Billy. He chews his bottom lip and glances up. 'Look, let's forget about this—'

And there's the flame. Only it's cold fire that consumes Billy, starting near his solar plexus and spreading out. His chest is tight and his ears are ringing. 'Fine with me,' he says and turns to go.

'I didn't mean—' Steve grabs his arm. 'What are you doing?'

'I'm forgetting about it.' Billy tries to shrug Steve off but Steve holds on tighter. 'Just fuck off.' He wrenches his arm away and steps out of Steve's reach and walks down the hall.

Steve calls after him—'Billy, wait! Let me explain!'—but Billy doesn't stop and Steve doesn't follow. 

When Billy walks outside and leaves, he makes sure he doesn't forget his board this time.

—STALL—

'I'm bored,' Max says, hugging Billy's pillow to her chest, legs stretched over Billy's knees.

'Not my problem.' Billy shifts so he jostles Max—enough to make her huff in irritation but not enough to dislodge her.

'Why don't we go skate at Steve's?' 

'Because he's an asshole.'

Max's brow furrows. 'He seemed nice to me.' 

'Well, he's not,' Billy says, bringing his legs up sharply, so Max topples over, 'now fuck off.'

'Jerk,' Max says, throwing Billy's pillow at him, and storms out of his room.

'Brat!'

Billy pulls his pillow over his head, bites into it and tries not to scream. The problem isn't that Steve is an asshole, but that Billy is. That he runs his mouth and says things he doesn't mean because it's easier than the alternative. That he lashes out and hurts the wrong people. That he assumes the worst of everyone all the time.

Steve had been kind to Billy and Billy threw it back in his face because he doesn't know what to do with _kind_. He should have let Steve explain. He should have stayed and he should have heard Steve out. But he didn't, because he's an asshole.

He probably owes Steve an apology at the very least. Steve deserves that. But he deserves better than Billy, too, and Billy's not sure Steve would want to see him, besides. Billy wouldn't blame him, after the way he acted, but the thought still smarts.

If he leaves it long enough, Steve will be gone, anyway, back home to Indiana, and he'll forget all about Billy.

Billy isn't sure if the thought is liberating or terrifying.

—SWITCH—

Billy shuts the door of the surf shop and locks it, then slips the keys into his pocket. The whisper of waves calls to him from the shore but he promised Max—who is practically bouncing beside him—he'd take her for pizza and pinball after his shift, so he ignores them.

It's been over a week since Billy was grounded but his dad got sick of having him around all the time and told him in no uncertain terms to _get out of the damn house, would you_ , effectively ending his grounding this morning. 

Billy had been going stir crazy, too, but being grounded was a good excuse to avoid Steve. The shift at the shop was another, and he'd been all-too-eager in his offer to take Max for pizza, but soon the excuses will run out and Billy will have to stop being such a wimp and—

'Steve!' Max calls out.

Billy's heart lurches and he turns. Steve is walking toward them, hands in his pockets, smiling at Max like he's strode right out of Billy's head and onto the sidewalk.

'Hey,' Steve says, coming to a stop a few feet away. He runs a hand through his hair, glances at Billy.

'Why are you here?' Billy asks.

Before Steve can answer Max turns a glare on Billy and says, 'Geez, why are you always so rude?'

'Go home, Maxine.'

'But—' Max looks between Steve and Billy. 'But you said you'd buy me pizza.'

Billy flushes at the almost fond look Steve turns on him. He clears his throat. 'Buy your own damn pizza,' he says but Max crosses her arms and her glare deepens. There's hurt beneath it, too, and guilt swishes in Billy's stomach. He rolls his eyes and digs into his pocket. 'Here,' he says, thrusting a five dollar bill at her, 'I'm buying you pizza.'

She huffs but takes the money and reluctantly leaves, saying goodbye to Steve and flipping Billy off.

'I like your sister,' Steve says.

Billy grunts, noncommittal, and doesn't think to correct Steve. He licks his lips. There's an awkward silence hanging between him and Steve that the waves and the chatter of passersby do nothing to alleviate. Billy shifts his weight. 'I didn't think I'd see you again.'

Steve's face lights up. 'You've been thinking about me?'

Billy's pulse flutters; he's been doing nothing but thinking of Steve. But he only says, 'What do you want?' hoping he doesn't sound as desperate as he feels.

'I wanted to see you,' Steve says, so open and honest that something in Billy's chest tightens. 'Before I leave.'

'You're leaving then?'

'Yeah…I mean, I can't stay.'

'No,' Billy says and silence falls again.

'Could we go somewhere to talk?'

Billy considers Steve. He looks…well, he looks good. He always does. It was easier to think about never seeing Steve again, to let this all fade away, when Billy was alone in his room. But now… 'Yeah,' Billy says, 'I know somewhere we can go.' He walks off toward his secret spot and Steve follows. 

'Look, I want to apologise if I said the wrong thing that night,' Steve says. 'I mean, I guess I did…I'm just not sure what it was.'

'It wasn't you.'

'Oh, the old "it's not you, it's me," line, huh?'

'No, it's not that…'

Steve throws a questioning look at Billy but Billy only says, 'This way,' and waves Steve over to the hidden steps that lead to the cove he's been coming to for years. One of those places only locals know about.

Billy reaches out to steady Steve—one hand on his elbow, the other tangling with Steve's—when he skids down the last step.

'Thanks,' Steve says, fingers catching on Billy's as he pulls his hand away. He looks around, then turns back to Billy. 'This is a nice spot.'

'Yeah,' Billy says, 'no one should bother us here.'

'In case this doesn't go well?'

Billy takes a chance and says, 'In case it does.'

Steve smiles and then he sits. Billy sits next to him, close enough that they're almost touching, but he can't bring himself to bridge the distance. It's quiet again, but it's not so strained now, even though there's still a lot to say. It's like they need to settle back into each other's presence before the right words can come out.

Still, it's not long before Steve says, 'I didn't want to forget about the _kiss_. And I don't think you're a loser,' tracing shapes in the sand between the two of them. He looks up, eyes brimming with moonlight. 'I think, you know, you're kinda great.' He ducks his gaze. 'Difficult as all hell but…great.'

Billy laughs. It comes out humourless. Bitter.

Steve shoots him a look. 'You don't believe me?'

'Can you blame me?' Billy pushes down the anger and shame welling and says, 'All my friends have moved away and they were all better skaters than me. That's why they're pro and I'm not.' They're not the only ones who left Billy behind, but he can't talk about her tonight. 'And I'm stuck here, in the same shitty little house I grew up in. I mean, I'm…nothing and you're…'

'I'm what?'

Billy sucks in a breath. Anything he can think to say would reveal more about himself than it would Steve, so he shifts, clearing his throat, and says, 'You know.' He'd been aiming for offhand and vague but it comes out so fucking earnest he may as well have said _gee whiz, I think you're just keen, Steve, wanna go steady?_

The way Steve flushes suggests he knows exactly what was behind those two words. He sucks on his lip, then says, 'Well, my dad bought my way into college because my grades sure as heck weren't good enough for Ivy League. So…'

'So, what you're saying is, we're both losers?'

Steve snorts. 'No, but if that makes you feel better, then sure.'

Billy smiles, despite himself.

'I can't do anything like you can do, Billy. I don't care if you think you're not good enough for pro skating. The way you skate it's…art.' Steve shrugs. 'Not that I know much about that.'

The tips of Billy's ears go hot. 'Thanks,' he murmurs and digs his fingers into the sand.

'It's OK,' Steve says. He's shifted closer, and all at once there's that spark again, that electricity arcing between them, setting Billy alight.

'Steve…'

Steve pulls back—'Sorry'—and looks out across the ocean. 'I'm glad we met but I think it's better that nothing happened between us.' He frowns. 'I mean, nothing more than, um. I'm leaving, so…there's no point.' He looks at Billy. 'Right?'

'Right…'

Billy could leave it at that. Steve's given him an out and it would be so easy to take it. But deep, deep down, he knows if he lets Steve go back to Bumfuck, Indiana without—

Without. 

He leans over and kisses Steve, hands curled in his shirt. It lands a little off because Steve has turned away, but then he shifts and he kisses Billy back.

It's hot and slow and it makes Billy's blood sing. Steve threads a hand through Billy's hair, tilting his head for a better angle. He licks into Billy's mouth, tongue hot, searching. It catches on Billy's teeth and Billy moans, feels like he's going out of his fucking mind. Where the fuck did Steve learn to kiss like this?

Steve pulls away, brushes his nose over Billy's cheek, kisses the corner of his mouth. He rests their foreheads together, lips shining and chest heaving. 'Fuck. I wanna take you home and…'

'And what?'

'You know.'

Billy grins. 'Then take me home, Richie Rich.' He leans back on one elbow, sweeps his hand over the sand, and winks. 'Or we can just do it here.'

Steve snorts. 'And they say romance is dead.'

'Romance is overrated.' Billy pushes himself up again and leans into Steve. Maybe Steve does deserve better but Billy is an asshole and assholes are selfish, right? And the way Steve is looking at him, the way he's sitting so close, it's not like Billy could walk away, not again, so he says, 'Seriously, if you want to and I want to…what's the problem?'

'I'm leaving,' Steve repeats. 'We don't have enough time.'

There's time enough for what they both want, tonight, but that's not what Steve means and Billy knows it. They've wasted so many days— _he's_ wasted so many days—but he's not going to let any more slip by. 'When?'

'When what?'

'When do you leave?'

Steve swallows. 'The end of summer.'

August is dwindling, each day passing quicker than the last. It isn't much time, and Billy doesn't know if it'll be _enough_ , but he's not going to spend the rest of summer with only the memory of Steve's kiss.

So, he tucks a finger under Steve's chin, looks him right in those big dark eyes of his, and says, 'OK. Then we've got 'til the end of summer.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :) hope that wasn't too long for a one shot...I was too impatient to divvy up the chapters, etc. Oh, also, if there are any formatting issues/small spelling mistakes please feel free to let me know!
> 
> I kinda feel like I could have made a whole big multi chaptered fic out of this ‘verse but this was all I had the energy for, right now! I did have a couple of ideas for follow ups but the ideas I’m kicking around are kinda wildly different so I have to decide which direction to go in if I end up having the time to come back to this AU
> 
> I’ve got a moodboard for the fic [over here on Tumblr](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/185325778490/the-skater-and-the-rich-boy-for) (I’m not using Tumblr at the moment, and not sure if/when I’ll be in the right headspace go back, but I REALLY like making moodboards and figured that was the best place to post it haha)
> 
> The working title for this fic was ‘he was a skater boy’ and I was close to keeping it because clearly this fandom needs more Avril Lavigne references but I ended up going with this one because…I just did. 
> 
> All the section titles are skateboarding terms—I used several different sources for them and tried to cross reference but please forgive me if any aren’t right and/or if any are anachronistic. I didn’t research the history of each of them…also if I used anything wrong within the text, again, I’m sorry! (I tried to keep the skating stuff vague but yeah.)
> 
> Steve’s grandparents’ house was kinda inspired by the [‘Dogbowl’ house](https://ozzieausband.wordpress.com/2010/02/16/dogbowl/)
> 
> I’ve been re-watching That ‘70s Show so I kinda imagined Steve dressing a bit like Kelso and Billy dressing like Hyde (more his band shirts/tee combos than some of his wacky shirts but, hey, you never know!) Billy's taste in music is also inspired by Hyde's (and, lbr, mine! Except I DO like ABBA...and disco...and Hall and Oates haha).
> 
> AND I didn’t make a complete list of the albums Billy takes to Steve’s but here’s a few:  
> Toys in the Attic - Aerosmith  
> High Voltage - AC/DC (the international version, obviously)  
> Paranoid - Black Sabbath  
> Sin After Sin - Judas Priest  
> Agents of Fortune - Blue Öyster Cult  
> Ramones - Ramones  
> And probably a bunch of Zeppelin and maybe at least one KISS LP plus others that make up to 20 haha


End file.
